


follow your fire

by cirrus (themorninglark)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: AtsuHina Week 2020, Hinata POV, M/M, Manga Spoilers, Post-Timeskip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24678637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/cirrus
Summary: Loving: that’s what Miya Atsumu does.In which Hinata meets a tree that flowers in winter.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 35
Kudos: 160





	follow your fire

**Author's Note:**

> this is my offering to AtsuHina Week, Day 6: Flowers!
> 
> title and epigraph: [a Kodaline mood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i9wBXC3aZ_I)

_We had the songs that we sang along to  
_ _You had the moves to make me dance with you  
_ _I always saw you reaching and catching stars  
_ _(Did you follow your, follow your fire?)_

The golden trumpet tree at the corner has exploded. _Ipê-amarelo-da-serra_. Pedro taught him the Portuguese name for it this morning, said: that tree grows everywhere here, it’s nothing special, but the name tangos across Shouyou’s tongue like his feet in the hot sand and he can’t help staring because, has he ever seen something like this? Has _anyone_? A whole tree in winter, bursting into brass-band bloom louder than the sun, and are there cymbals clanging bright right now or is it just in his head? Too late—he’s zoomed round the corner already, canting sideways on his bike, _whooosh_. Yellow still in his eyes. He’ll miss this when he’s back in Japan, the winter that never really gets _cold_ cold all the way in his bones, the smell of the sea, and flowers shaped like trumpets all over his view of the sky, to proclaim: look at me. Shouyou loves it. He loves it so much he opens his mouth and pours his heart out to anyone who’ll listen. _Bom dia, bom dia!_

* * *

Loving: that’s what Miya Atsumu does. When he finds out that Osamu didn’t continue, Shouyou’s mouth is full of onigiri and that’s how he hears, with Atsumu saying _Samu made that, it’s good, isn’t it?_ He’s leaning forward, hands balled into fists on his lap and a rough shoe-shine gleam in his voice, like he had anything to do with his brother’s onigiri. And that’s love too: so blinding Shouyou once looked directly at it through a net, and then again to regain his sight. Osamu at his back. The weight of a ball against all ten fingertips. The sound the floor makes when he takes that perfect step, a skid slantways against time itself. All the things Atsumu would keep forever if his arms were broad enough to hold that much. Shouyou feels every inch of that ache within him, a constant blossoming.

 _It’s super good,_ he says without bothering to swallow. Atsumu’s grin fills the entire court, even the dusty corners, even high, high up into the rafters where his laugh doesn’t reach. It makes Shouyou want to take a running leap to see if he can grab it. Then Atsumu leans into him, arm on his shoulder, and talks of the distance between Osaka and Sendai, and all the rice fields you see along the way, and Shouyou dreams of journeys.

* * *

Speaking of ordinary marvels, this sofa is one. It’s like a giant marshmallow and Shouyou could sink right into it. He’s surrounded by incredible things: the vending machines with sparkling orange drinks. The lamps in this hotel lobby, which look like grape bunches. This hot green tea in a takeaway cup. Shouyou peels off the lid and takes a noisy inhale with his eyes squeezed shut and when he opens them again, Atsumu’s smiling at him with one eyebrow raised.

Another day, another city, but the people stay the same and that is an amazing thing too, that _every day_ Atsumu sets for him. His sets feel good to hit, Kageyama had said, and the first time Shouyou spikes a ball Atsumu sends him, he _gets_ it, it’s like when he’s barefoot at the shore line and the tide comes washing in and out again, and he’s standing in these pocket-sized little hollows in the sand exactly the shape of his feet. Sometimes the tide is gentle, sometimes moody, sometimes playful. Shouyou likes it every way. He wants to plunge right in so they’ll hear the splash all the way in Tokyo.

In Bokuto’s room, they watch video replays on loop and play daihinmin way past sundown till Sakusa, who left them hours ago, interrupts with a phone call to say the walls of this hotel may be thick but the three of them in the same small space are like a hurricane and could they, for the love of all decent things, please go to sleep?

Bokuto puts his finger on his lips and tells them they all have to be _very quiet now_. Shouyou lays down his hand of cards, kings up, pretends to zip his mouth shut and beams. And Atsumu, sprawled on the carpet with his head in Shouyou’s lap, rolls over. _Let’s go to the baths_ , he says.

Shouyou likes to hold his breath until he gets all lightheaded and dizzy in the steam. It makes him feel like he’s weightless, like he could soar. Atsumu’s leaning back, his arms spread and eyes closed, a towel folded on his forehead. It’s funny, the nice kind of funny, to see him so at peace. Shouyou wiggles his toes underwater and stops just short of tickling the sole of Atsumu’s foot. He closes his eyes too and thinks of a tree that dares to flower in winter.

Speaking of marvels, Shouyou finds them everywhere he goes. The ceiling, not quite as high as the sky by the beach, but so very dazzling when all the lights are on. The unchanging smell of Air Salonpas. Atsumu’s hand when it meets his in a low five, palm to palm to victory.

* * *

They stay back for extra practice before the game with the Adlers. Shouyou’s got to be the _best_ he can possibly be, when he faces Kageyama, and he’s going to beat him at last but most important of all, the biggest thing of all, so big it’ll bowl him over if he doesn’t keep moving, is that there’s a place for him on that court and he’s going to stay there _forever_.

Spiking a ball from Atsumu feels good, but receiving one of his nasty serves makes Shouyou feel like he could do backflips for days. Right into the dango and onigiri stands. Right into the crowd. Then another one’s coming his way, a real belter with a spin on it, and Shouyou stands firm against solid ground again and he still can’t get over that feeling, the ground right here for him, not shifting, not slipping away. Time stops in the split second he braces himself. _Forever_ isn’t that long. That’s the mistake everyone makes.

The ball slams into Shouyou’s outstretched arms, and he grins, and Atsumu laces his fingers through the holes in the net and says, _another_. And another, and another. All night long, and it wouldn’t be enough.

So they break for water and Shouyou takes Atsumu’s sweaty face in his sweatier hands and kisses him. So Atsumu’s lips part. So they’re both tasting salt and their bodies are the sea itself, vast and restless.

* * *

_Well, of course Osamu-san didn’t continue. He doesn’t love volleyball as much as you do. He doesn’t love it half as much as you do!_

_Seriously? Shouyou-kun, you’re scary. You could tell that?_

* * *

But how could he not? How could he not have, when it shone so fearless from the other side of the court, all that stubborn love?

* * *

Sand is sand is sand, no matter where in the world. Even when it’s man-made and it’s in Odaiba. Shouyou races his growing shadow towards the Rainbow Bridge. Atsumu’s squatting by the shore, making friends with hermit crabs, or maybe enemies.

The sand catches Shouyou, catches his breath when his legs give way. He’s digging his heels in and thinking of eating a hundred empadinhas, and he hears Atsumu get up and walk over. Hands on his hips, half-smile on his face, lit up in brass and gold. _Louder than the sun._

 _Ipê-amarelo-da-serra_ , Shouyou murmurs as Atsumu approaches. Like butter on his tongue. After so long not speaking Portuguese, it doesn’t melt as easy as it used to, but that just means Shouyou can savour it for longer.

Atsumu asks if he said something.

Shouyou smiles and says Atsumu’s name, all bright in his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the [golden trumpet tree](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Handroanthus_chrysotrichus). it's actually an emblematic flower of Brazil 🌼
> 
> thank you for reading! find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/lightveils)


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